Kunti took us Pandavas for a movie last night
We had to walk over the hills in a line,
Bhima leading.

Desert roses were in bloom,
I know how Draupdi loves the colour,
The colour of our passion, the scent minuscule,
We sniff at it the whole night to get a trace of it,
The mysterious scent. When I look up,
There is laughter in Draupadi’s brown eyes,
Her nostrils flare,
Her lobolikka lips quiver.

The movie was about rape.
I could not understand a teeny-weeny bit.
The return trek was murderous,
The long torch dead in Bhima’s hands
The hillocks solitary, secretive,
Dry,
And darkness descending at great speed.
Our eyes were parched, when right in front of us,
The fireflies lit up from a heavenly command,
On the semul tree on the banks of the Kabini.

We stood in a row, I do not remember who led,
Who brought up the rear,
But the fireflies raged,
Lighting up the forest, the velvet rocks,
Nude trees and the green river.

We forgot the calender:
No one could remember who would sleep with Draupdi,
Whose night it was,
Our minds filled with the magnificent fireflies,
As was the ground beneath, the gorgeous rocks,
All covered.

Draupdi slept in the open,
Under the opium of dead fireflies.